Secrets of the Morning (Cutler 2)

"I'm not going to walk all the way to his apartment, Trisha. You're acting like a nervous mother. I'll be fine, really."

I slipped on my overcoat.

"Tell Agnes . . . tell her . . ."

"What?" Trisha asked.

"Tell her I've eloped," I said and followed it with a thin little laugh much like hers.

"Dawn," Trisha said, standing.

"It's all right. When two people are in love the way we are, nothing else matters. You should hear the way we sing together. What am I saying? Before long, you will," I added and laughed again.

Then I rushed out the door and bounced down the stairs. Trisha called after me, but I didn't stop. I hurried out the front before anyone could see me. Trisha was right: the snow storm had begun. Flakes that looked nearly an inch thick were falling so heavily it was difficult to see five feet in front of me. I walked quickly up to the corner and waved and waved at every cab, not being able to see whether each had a passenger or not. Finally, one pulled up in front of me and I practically dove into the back seat. I gave the driver Michael's address and sat back thinking of the things I would say as soon as he opened that door and embraced me.

It would be just like a wonderful musical when the two leads finally overcome all the obstacles between them and meet on the stage to sing in each other's arms.

"I'm here, Michael," I whispered. "I've come, my love, to be with you forever and ever. No more secrets, no more hiding, no more clandestine rendezvous, no more quick, stolen kisses. Now we could walk hand in hand in public and all the world could see how much in love we are and how our talents make us something very special."

"Looks like we're in for it," the taxi driver said. "When the city gets four or five inches, all hell breaks loose and everything comes to a standstill. What a mess," he said.

Oh no, I thought as I gazed out the window. It's no mess. This snow looks beautiful. I'm happy it's snowing. Perhaps this means we'll have a white Christmas. I could hear the sound of bells and the Christmas carols. I could see Michael and I standing in the window looking down at the revelers, Michael's arm around me, both of us warmed by our eggnog drinks. Perhaps we had just made love.

"Merry Christmas, my love," he would say and kiss me.

"Merry Christmas, Michael."

"What's that?" the taxi driver asked.

"Nothing," I said, smiling. "I'm just dreaming out loud."

He looked at me in his rearview mirror and then shook his head. It's all right, I thought, why should I expect anyone else to understand how special and happy I felt.

In my excitement when we arrived, I nearly rushed away without paying the driver. After he called out, I returned and threw all my money at him, giving him nearly twice as much as the fare.

"Merry Christmas," I sang when he looked up in surprise. "Everyone should be as happy as I am."

He shrugged and drove off. When I entered the lobby, the doorman, who was more than familiar with me, gazed at me curiously as I made my way to the elevator. I smiled at him and stepped into the elevator as soon as the doors opened. The instant they opened again, I rushed out to Michael's door and pressed the buzzer. For a moment I thought he wasn't home. I heard no one inside and no one had come to the door. I pressed the buzzer again and then I heard footsteps.

My love, I thought.

The door opened, but Michael wasn't standing there. It was a much older man with curly gray hair and a round face. He had rosy cheeks and bushy eyebrows and wore a heavy woolen bathrobe with a towel around his neck.

"Hello," he said. "I was almost in the shower." I looked past him, but saw no one.

"I'm looking for Michael," I said.

"Michael? Oh, Michael Sutton?" I nodded, but he shook his head. "Well, he's gone. By now he's somewhere over the Atlantic, I imagine. He was supposed to see you today, Miss . . ."

"No," I said, "he can't be gone. All his things are here," I pointed out. "The paintings, the furniture . . ."

"These aren't Michael's things, Miss. Michael was subletting my apartment. I'm sure there is some confusion. I've got his forwarding address in London if you want it, but . . ."

"No, he's got to be here," I insisted and walked by him. He didn't stop me from entering. I ran through the apartment. "Michael, Michael!"

One look at the bedroom told me he was indeed gone. The things I knew were his were missing and different clothing was hanging in the closet. There was even a different bedspread. The gentleman who had let me in stood behind me, a look of annoyance on his face now.

"Listen, Miss, I told you, Michael Sutton is gone. Now do you want his forwarding address or what?"